Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Warner
Crossfire Currency
Wednesday morning, I’m trapped in a compliance and data security meeting for the RealSpace Engine update.
We’ve already completed quality assurances, calculations, map reports, geolocation accuracy, report outputs.
All green. The live field tests? Done. Now, the entire senior staff is sandwiched between legal, engineering, and infosec, locked in a stalemate over whether the engine is ready to roll out globally, and I’m sitting here barely able to stifle my smile.
It’s basically a glorified checklist-measuring contest. An interdepartmental battle of “who’s got more workflows and controls to absolve their team of liability if someone builds a structurally unsound house of cards from RealSpace outputs and it collapses spectacularly.”
It’s not that regulatory standards are particularly exciting, per se. I’m just feeling distractingly good.
Any other day—any other week or month, for that matter—I’d be the first one arguing for modular rule engines to update the compliance logic without redeploying the entire app. This is my business. My language. Pretty much my entire life’s purpose, all tucked into this tiny pinprick on the internet.
I built my flagship Mod3D app to put precision and safety in the hands of builders.
Now it’ll connect directly with the RealSpace Engine to advance the goal of ensuring people live and work in structurally sound buildings.
It offers hyper-optimized renderings and simulations tailored for real-world property modeling.
Structural integrity with no thermal loss, water intrusion, or insulation failures.
I could talk about this stuff all day because it speaks to me on the deepest level, and that’s both fulfilling and beautiful.
It’s just a little hard to focus today when my head’s running on warp speed, thinking about dinner with Whitney tomorrow night.
I’m ready.
At least, I hope I am.
“Is something funny about end-to-end encryption, Warner?”
I glance up from my phone to the twelve department heads positioned around the conference table, looking at me expectantly, and as hard as I try, I can’t find it in me to massage their egos right now.
“Not at all,” I tell Ed, my head of engineering, who routinely elevates his team above legalities, regulatory standards, and even data security, as if any group operates in a vacuum. “I’m well aware it’s needed on all captured data. Photos, measurements, geolocation. Both in transit and at rest.”
Anything else? My jaw tightens under my clenched teeth.
“Great.” He pokes his tongue lightly into his cheek and inhales a long breath, watching me furtively. “You just seemed a little distracted, is all. But hey, I’m glad you’re in such a good mood today.”
“Likewise.”
He holds my stare a few seconds longer, his sharp features tightening, and I sense he’s debating whether to press me further.
It’d be a catastrophic mistake on his part.
Like Ed, every suit in this conference room, at one time or another, has assumed I’m just the face and funds behind the product.
But what they quickly learned, and now Ed will too, is that I make it my business to read every document, release note, and compliance report before it ever reaches them.
Our motto isn’t Precision in every layer because it sounds good.
It’s my promise to the engine’s users as much as to builders.
To city planners. To some eight-year-old boy whose home burned to ashes because of compromised structural integrity, leaving him homeless. To me.
My presence in these meetings is simply oversight.
So, if I want to sit at the head of this long wooden table with my head down, declining a counteroffer from Zeek Harrison and happily scrolling for tips on how to exchange Cord’s “Husband Material” label for the “Casual Sex with Whitney Graves Material” badge of honor, that’s my prerogative. And my dilemma.
Fuck.
Why does Zeek want these paintings so bad?
At the other end of the table, my compliance head flips the page on his deck loudly, prompting Ed to turn to him. “Encryption isn’t a problem,” he counters, before diving into a spiel about prioritizing regulatory adherence.
And cue the crossfire.
The team goes back to arguing about clarity on retention rules to allow architecting storage layers correctly and discussing compliance nightmares that’ll have us knee-deep in zoning laws and liability clauses for the foreseeable future.
But after I confirm that the engine meets local surveying regulations, licensing requirements, and Georgia’s specific measurement standards, and legal breathes a sigh of relief, I return to my “How to Have Meaningless Sex” Google search just as a text from Cord appears on my screen.
Cord
Ready to kick off your marathon with Whitney this weekend?
Warner
Ten days is a marathon?
Cord
It is for you. Try not to fall for her before dinner’s over tomorrow.
Warner
How about you worry about making yourself useful to Alexis. Go fix some cabinets or check her tire pressure, or something. I’ve got this.
Cord
You know that’s some husband-type shit, right? Lol. Just know I’m already in full spectator mode.
Warner
Good. You’ll have the perfect view to see my plan in action.
Just as soon as I’ve got one.
I swipe out of messages, back to my search results, still taking notes. Still wrapping my head around the idea of sex being just a physical outlet, not an emotional one. Setting clear expectations and boundaries to keep my heart out of my dick’s business. And safety.
Before I forget, since I’ll be prioritizing physical pleasure, I quickly open up a new tab to order a box of condoms, and… Whoa!
Since when did stocking up on protection require a flowchart?
Immediately, I feel the decision paralysis coming down on me.
Latex, non-latex, ribbed for maximum pleasure, I get.
Female condoms, sure. Even assorted colors and flavors.
But lubricated bare-skin supreme? Ultra-thin, ultra-sensitive, climax delay?
Graphene flex condoms? And what in the hell is a Stallion Pleasure Pack?
Does it come with extra horsepower? Am I supposed to neigh while we’re coming?
Would Whitney want that?
Oh my Lord. I’m so far out of my comfort zone, it’s not even funny.
I stare at my screen until it dims. My mind drifts far from the condom cornucopia and the starkly lit conference room. I’m not even seeing the assorted bare-skin pixels anymore. Just my reflection, faint and unfocused. Lost.
You can do this, Warn.
Flicking a glance at my team, running the same discussion we’ve been having for weeks into the ground, I tell myself it doesn’t have to be complicated.
Then, without thinking, I wake my screen, blindly circle my finger, then randomly double-tap a bright green box, feeling inspired. As I click buy, I release a relieved sigh.
That’s right, keep it simple.
I’ve already laid the groundwork for my plan.
The five-star restaurant’s booked. I’ve got a fresh fade.
My suit is already laid out, charcoal with impeccable stitching only a Milanese tailor would obsess over.
I’m even dusting off the cuff links and monogrammed money clip a client gave me years ago, back when I was confused by means and meaning.
All carefully curated props to sell the “cold cash machine” persona.
That’s what she wants. That’s who she thinks I am, right?
Not too much. Just enough extravagance to bait the hook, to see whether Whitney reaches for the gleam or the man holding it.
Then, over dinner, when it’s just us, one on one, without the gallery crowd and the cameras and the public-facing armor she wears like couture, I’ll hit her with the coup de grace:
The Clover Cay weekend trip.
It’s the type of offer no true social climber—no ten-day stand—would ever turn down.
With any luck, it’ll be enough to pull back the curtains. One that will undoubtedly reveal a high-level climber?
Boom! My emotional attraction instantly turns off like a switch, just in time for us to get down and dirty once. Maybe twice, if she’s into casual sex.
Honesty is the best policy, right?
I’ll lay out my intentions, get her consent, and emphasize that there’s no commitment or expectation of a relationship.
Business handled. Wager won. I move forward clean, unbothered, a man who finally proves to Cord and every other hater that I’m not some hopeless, starry-eyed relationship guy who falls for the first set of dimples that wanders into my orbit.
Just one who’s apparently trying to hit it and quit it.
How hard can that be?
Simple. Foolproof.
A soft knock interrupts my mental victory lap. Greer pokes her head into the conference room. “There’s a phone call for Mr. Easton.”
A wave of impatient glares snap to her wedged into the doorframe.
“Yeah, can you take a message, Greer?”
She flicks an uneasy look from the suits to me. Then her eyes widen. “Mr. Easton, it’s regarding your meeting tomorrow evening…”
Whitney.
My heart beats a million times per minute.
I toss Leon, my attorney, a look that says, Handle this, please, while I step out. He nods, and I straighten, catching strays from every direction as I stand. “I’ll make it quick,” I mutter.
But the second the conference door shuts behind me, Greer is already on my heels, buzzing with nervous energy.
“Is everything set for tomorrow?” she asks, breathlessly keeping pace. “Should I send the car service and restaurant details to Whitney’s assistant now?”
My throat tightens as I reach the lobby. Her phone blinks incessantly, magnifying my sudden nerves.
“Uh… no. Not yet.” I exhale, trying to steady the churning in my stomach. “Did she say why she was calling?”
Greer shakes her head, mirroring my unease.
“Okay,” I say, picking up the receiver. “This is Warner Easton.”
Her voice hits me right between the ribs. Warm, calm, bordering on intimate in a way that slips past my defenses. “Hey, it’s Whitney.”
My throat goes desert dry.
It’s a physical outlet, not an emotional one, Warner.
“Listen, I’m in the middle of a meeting. Can I call you back a little later?”
She sighs softly into the line, and it’s disarming in such a genuine way. “Of course. I just wanted to thank you for the dinner invitation… and tell you how much I’m looking forward to continuing the conversation we started at the, um, gallery.”
That pause makes me lean in, almost like it’s pulling me forward.
“I feel like there’s so much more for us to explore,” she says softly.
Immediately my smile falters.
How does she do that? With only a handful of words, her hooks are in me.
Greer and I exchange a long, loaded look.
Her big brown eyes widen. Wordlessly, she’s excavating the subtext, questioning if the rumors are true.
Should she read between the lines? Did something really happen between Whitney and me behind that gallery’s restroom door?
And underneath that, deeper still, do I want them to be true?
Is that even a question?
For my body, it’s beyond wanting. Every inch of me is reacting, remembering, aching like she’s in the room with me. Just us, tucked in a dimly lit room with only our shallow breaths, her flimsy satin dress fabric, and thickened desire throbbing between us.
My head, though… that’s a whole different battlefield.
The mere fact that she called is both top-tier professional and thoughtful in a way that makes me so curious about the woman behind the words.
I want to know her, how she spends her days, what makes her tick.
Because this woman who reached out… can’t be the same one from the country club and the gallery.
Where’s the debutante who wields her feminine charms for any introduction to society? The Luxe lady contender who whispers in dark corners with Zeek Harrison? The bold sexual innuendos? Where are the disparaging vlog comments?
What changed?
So even though I feel like I’m supposed to say something smooth, something swaggy and utterly unhusband-like—“Yeah, sounds like we’re overdue for some hands-on research” or “We’d better get started exploring because I don’t like leaving good territory undiscovered”—I don’t.
I can’t summon the words to be that crude.
“Yeah, I think so too,” I tell Whitney, forcing the words out. “I’ll, uh, see you tomorrow, right?”
As soon as the line clicks off, I turn to Greer, my pulse spiking, head spinning.
“Let’s hold off on sending the details for tomorrow,” I say, feeling every crack in my not-so-solid plan. Because now it feels like I’m walking straight into my own trap. “I, uh, might need to make a few adjustments.”
Greer arches a curious brow.
Suddenly, this weekend isn’t a test—it’s a recon mission. A marathon. And my know-it-all best friend called it. I’m not trained for this.